1st July 2009
Escape from Lithuania ...
I made my escape from Nida just in time: I spent a brief night in Klaipeda,before heading to Hel in Poland - course southwest, wind just beginning to fill in from the north east. The sea hadn't yet had time to build up, so I wasn't rolling too much. Over the next few days, the north easterly built in strength, and Hel was full of frustrated yachtsmen trying to get to Klaipeda.
The harbours along the Polish Baltic coast can be uncomfortable or even dangerous in strong onshore winds, so I went off to Gdansk:
The marina is four miles up the river, and the journey takes you past all the shipyards, as you can see:
This appeared in front of me as I was going upriver, and I thought I'd better slow down to let them get it out of the way!
The old city is very impressive, although almost completely rebuilt after the war. It's difficult to tell what is 'authentic' and what is complete reconstruction. The waterfront is, however, quite impressive:
23rd June 2009
The fifth British yacht ever to ...
… visit Nida. Where? Well, first of all, have a look at the map opposite (courtesy of Wikipedia). In the far south east of the Baltic are two large stretches of inland waters, one of which is known (in English) as the Curonian Lagoon. It is enclosed on the seawater side by a sand spit about 100 kilometres long, known, astonishingly, as the Curonian Spit. In places this is quite high: my chart noted one hump as 67m height, and is around 1 to 2 kilometres wide. The lagoon is roughly triangular as you can see, and today is split between the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad and Lithuania. Nida is half way down on the seaward side, and about 2 kilometres from the Russian border. The only opening to the Baltic is at Klaipeda, and it is about 25 seamiles from Klaipeda to Nida. The lagoon is very shallow – much of it less than 2 metres deep, but there is a very well buoyed channel. Even so, my shallow depth alarm (set at 2.2m – I touch bottom when it reads about 1.6m) was beeping continuously going round the lighthouse at Pervalka. It's slightly disconcerting to know that there's about 40cm between the keel and the seabed …
My new Navionics electronic charts [purchased last March!] were completely out of date. The German Sportschiffahrtskarten were, on the other hand, up to date with all the buoys marked, and the tourist information office in Klaipeda sells an excellent plastic laminated chart for about £9. You enter the channel at Buoy Number 1, and reach Number 27 by Pervalka, where the lagoon has more water. Even so, there are another dozen or so you can follow if you take the direct route to Nida. And Nida itself? Once in, and once tied up to a stern buoy [tying up was easy, and the harbourmaster helped with the lines; untying to go provided more of a spectator sport], then I took a walk. The town has been almost completely rebuilt in the late twenty years, and rebuilt in, for what passes for modern development, a very tasteful way [see below].
The harbour entrance:
And the moorings:
It, is, apparently, very popular with German tourists. The harbour facilities are very good, the harbourmaster very friendly ['I am sorry, my English is not that good.' 'Better than my Lithuanian,' I told him]. I would have liked to have stayed for a couple more days, walking up onto the spit, and generally investigating the area. What impelled me to leave prematurely was the forecast for the week: strong north easterlies. Nida was wide open to the north east. I also wanted to start going west again, and though the wind direction was fine, the strength was not. I had no desire to spend twenty four hours from Klaipeda to Poland rolling around with 20+ knots of wind dead astern.
So, in the end, though very tempted to stay, I left after only one night. If you get the chance to visit Nida – go for it!
The spit:
The trees are planted to stop erosion. This is what happens when the vegetation is swept away:
12th June 2009
So, farewell Estonia ...
It was with reluctance that I left Ringsu for Ventspils, to begin my way south and west once more. I can hardly say I've 'done' Estonia, as I only visited the harbours in Riga Bay. On the other hand, the passage north looked decidedly tricky for a single hander, and the only other places that looked worth a visit were Haapsalu and Tallinn - Tallinn being a very long way. There are plenty of other harbours, but most seem to be in the back of beyond, and only worth visiting to say you'd been there.
I entered Estonia at Kuressaare, then went on to Roomessaare, Ruhnu, Parnu, and down Riga Bay into Latvia: Salacgriva and Riga. Back up to Ruhnu, and then back out into the Baltic.
Slightly to the surprise of some people I've spoken to, I found the Estonians very helpful and hospitable - but more of that later! Kuressaare and Parnu should be on everyone's itinerary - they were delightful towns and well worth the effort of getting there.
Ruhnu is a little island in the middle of Riga Bay, with fewer than a hundred inhabitants, but with a new yacht harbour:
The weather wasn't always like this - let's say it has been ...mixed!
4th June 2009
Flying the chute.
I don't have a spinnaker: being single handed and trying to deal with all those pieces of string would be a bit too much. What I do have, though, is a cruising chute. I bought it off Ebay three years ago, but, to be honest, haven't used it that much. Partly this is down to laziness; partly the fear that having hoisted it, the wind will suddenly come up to 20 knots and leave me struggling to get the thing down again.
But last Monday I was sailing from Salacgriva in Latvia to Riga, and there was virtually no wind when I set off. A little bit came up late morning, and I switched the motor off for some peace and quiet. I was making 2.9 knots under sail! Then I thought ... why not? Give the chute a go.
You can see the sea state - almost flat calm. The instruments told me there was 7.0 knots of apparent wind (apparent wind is the true wind plus the wind generated by the boat's movement) and the GPS told me I was going at 4.7 knots. Now that's not bad! Later in the afternoon, the wind swung round, so it was almost dead astern. I winged the chute thus:
Even though there was more wind, the boat was travelling slower - having the wind astern is always a slower point of sail. To show how steady Prospero is, I had the autohelm on, and it steered the boat quite happily for an hour or so without the sail collapsing once. Again, not bad!
24th May 2009
An embarrassing moment ...
Since my arrival in Estonia, I have found everyone extremely helpful and very hospitable. This morning I tested Estonian efficiency to its limit, and it came up trumps! It is, in many ways, a slightly embarrassing tale, but here goes.
It began soon after 7 o'clock this morning. The boat was hit by the wash from a passing pilot boat, and began rolling madly from side to side. I could hear things falling over in the cabin. After such a wakening, I thought I might as well get up.
I tried opening the door to the main cabin, but found it would open only a few centimetres. I was baffled for a moment or two, then realised what had happened. Next to the cabin door is the galley, with drawers for knives and forks, and so on. I must have left one of them unlatched, and it had slid open, blocking the door [the photo below, taken after the event, shows what I mean].
How to escape? There were two small hatches to the cabin, but they were just for ventilation. There were no panels I could unscrew to get out, and anyway, I had no tools with me. I was the only boat on the pontoon with anyone aboard. Then I remembered - my mobile phone, which I hadn't used since I had left Britain, was in the cabin! Maybe I could ring someone in England ... but there's a two hour time difference, so it was about 0530 there. Then they'd have to go onto the Internet, find Parnu Yacht Club, and call them from the UK ... maybe not. There was one option. Emergency numbers ...
I dialled the number. I got an answer, not surprisingly, in Estonian. I had to explain I was British ... yes? ... and I was locked on a yacht ... a yacht? you want sea rescue? ... no, no, no, I am at Parnu Yacht Club ... baffled silence, then which city? ... Parnu, the Yacht Club ... okay, name of boat? And this goes on a for a little while, until she hangs up.
I was a little worried - would she think I was a lunatic? (No comment) A hoaxer? Then I hear in the distance da, da, da, da .... The Fire Brigade was on its way!
I did have one other way of drawing attention to myself (apart from shouting in a very British way, 'Um, excuse me? Do you think you could give me a hand here?') - this was getting a coathanger, sticking a cap on top, putting my arm out of the hatch, and waving it about, hoping to attract someone's attention.
The thunder of feet down the pontoon! Chap in civvies climbs on, and we have a slightly awkward conversation - 'Er, no, not that hatch there, that one ... yes, it slides ... now if you could just close the drawer ...' And out I come, dishevelled, dressed in pyjamas. On the pontoon were four firemen, in their gear, helmets, the lot, carrying axes and hammers. I looked at these slightly apprehensively. The civvie said something to them. They all looked rather disappointed. 'Sorry for calling you out,' I babbled, 'very helpful ...' The civvie gave me a disdainful look and they walked away down the pontoon.
I suppose calling the emergency services might have been a bit over the top. Someone might have gone down the pontoon later in the morning (although I had no way of telling that someone was there). The sailmaker was due to call later that day ... on the other hand being stuck in the cabin for several hours did not appeal! I went round to the fire station later with a bottle of vodka to say thank you - a young Estonian women translated to one of the firefighters [not one that had come that morning] and promised to pass the bottle on. I hope she did.
Memo: check the drawers before going to bed. Keep the number of the local harbourmaster in the cabin!
19th May 2009
You have reached your destination ... Estonia
And all as a consequence of seeing a guide to Estonian waters on the Kelvin Hughes stand at the London Boat Show ...
The voyage up from Ventspils was quite eventful. The seas at the harbour entrance was not pleasant, and I motored north, accompanied by the Finnish boat which had left at the same time. I could see a fair amount of activity in the strait which leads into Riga Bay, and switched on the VHF radio to hear announcements from Latvian and Estonian warships that they were conducting underwater explosions, and that 'all ships were requested to keep a safe distance of two miles'! I think this was part of the on going effort to remove mines from former Soviet days, but there were also other NATO warships in the area, so perhaps it was just an exercise.
As I headed north, I eventually came into the shelter of the Estonian island of Saaremaa, which was very welcome - the sea out in the Baltic had been very lumpy. The sun was shining now, and the wind dropped. I motored on in almost a flat calm, when I saw in the distance, ahead, a very fast moving boat. This turned out to be an Estonian Border Guard vessel. He wasn't really interested in me, but stopped to check me out.
Very polite, very good English. The usual questions: where have you come from, where are you going, how many people on board. Then he wished me good luck and zoomed off elsewhere. (If the perspective in the picture looks a little odd, it's because I was using a telephoto lens.)
The approach to Kuressaare is ... interesting. It's a dredged channel about two and a half miles long and varying in width between about 50 to 100m. A lot of the dredged material has been heaped up either side to form banks. There are a dozen or so pairs of buoys marking the channel, so it's not that difficult, although it might be a little more problematic in bad weather. Once inside, there are three pontoons, all with the dreaded stern buoys, but as the only other visitor was the Finnish boat (they beat me in, but they motored all the way!), tying alongside was no problem.
Was it worth it? Well, Kuressaare seems an interesting place, and the harbour master is very helpful, and Estonia seems to have a different feel to the other former Communist countries - but that's something I shall reserve judgement on just for the moment. Mind you, a place where a gardener in the marina is listening to an Ipod can't be that impoverished ...!
14th May 2009
Liepaja and Ventspils (Latvia)
The quay at Liepaja is much the same as it was three years ago, although the surroundings have changed. There is also a new 'yacht centre' as part of the hotel, which has now been finished. The hotel itself is very smart, and free wifi is available in the art gallery (although I was able to access it at the quay using an adapter on the cabin top).
Prospero on the quay at Liepaja.
Liepaja also gets several bonus points by having an excellent supermarket about 200m away - a supermarket which makes the Waitrose in Godalming look like a corner shop! No fuel, though, unless you walk along to the petrol station by the supermarket with cans.
The town itself is very much a mixture - there has been a great deal of modern development, done well, giving parts of it quite a prosperous look. The older parts, whilst derelict in parts, add to the town's charm. Indeed, there are so many styles of building that it's hard to choose any particular one, but as an example:
I stayed for a few days for a break, then a few days more as it decided to rain! After the sunshine for the past few weeks, this was something of a novelty. But the weather cleared, and I headed off north, at the same time as a German Hanse 35 and an elderly wooden Finnish boat. The wind was light, meaning the motor was on from time to time, so I couldn't test the sailing ability of Prospero against the others, but we did have a breeze approaching Ventspils, and I think the Finnish boat had just the edge on me.
No one could describe the 'yacht harbour' in Ventspils as scenic or attractive, and it's also become a good deal shabbier in the intervening three years. I struggled with the stern buoy (my long piece of string, bought three months earlier for exactly this purpose, turned out to be too short!). The staging to which the bow is attached is quite high, making it even more of a struggle to get ashore. And the wind, for the past couple of days, has been a brisk northerly - not what I want.
This far north, the weather is beautiful in the sun, but bitter in any breeze. Daytime temperatures are still struggling to reach double figures, and it'll be even colder in Estonia. Against that, there is hardly any darkness: the sun sets at around 9:30 in the evening and rises about 0530 in the morning, but the sky is still light long after the sun has gone down.
Tomorrow I make my break for Riga Bay: either Kuressaare or the island of Ruhnu, depending on the wind. The forecast is for a light north or northeasterly - wrong direction for sailing, and I suspect it'll be motor most of the way.
6th May 2009
Another day, another country
Hel harbour in Poland has wifi - and without a password (the same is true of other Polish harbours. Bring along your laptop, and surf on the beach for free). That meant I could download a GRIB file - this gives the wind forecast for the next several days. The files are computer generated, and I've found them good up to now.
So, the forecast for Sunday was sun and light winds. I had a journey of over 100 miles to get to Klaipeda in Lithuania, and needed calm conditions. I set off just after eight in the morning, motorsailing. Visibility was good, and the sea nice and calm. The one drawback of this sort of journey is that it becomes very boring. You end up number watching on the instruments - hey, it's only 89.8 miles now! The wind filled in from the east at sunset, sufficient for me to turn the motor off at last and sail. The wind gradually strengthened during the night, to the extent that the autohelm was having difficulty coping, first luffing up, then bearing away too much, coming back until it was caught by another gust, and so on. I should have reefed the mainsail, but it was dark, and I didn't fancy going up to the mast and tying down lines. Instead, I rolled away the jib, and, rather to my surprise, the boat was happy on just the mainsail.
I arrived just after dawn, and radioed in. There were two ships about to enter harbour and I was told to wait. Eventually I could enter, and went down to the old immigration quay at Berth 42. This is now moorings for yachts, but was chockablock with local boats, with no room at all (and it was fairly cramped too). Instead, I went across the river to the Smiltyne Yacht Club, and tied up against a concrete quay with a distinct sense of deja vu - I had tied up to the same spot three years ago. However, there was electricity now, which was some improvement. I went to see the harbour master - who greeted me with some surprise (no one sails in the Baltic at this time of year!), then went back for sleep.
The yacht club basins get a lot of wash from the river, and it seemed worse than ever. The boat was continually rolling, and looking at the masts of the local boats, other berths seemed much the same. The ablutions were, shall we say, adequate, but not much more. The cost was 15 euros a day, which seemed excessive given the facilities.
The weather had finally broken now, with cloud and a westerly breeze. I was faced with a choice - two or three more days here, or go up to Liepaja? There wasn't much choice. I paid and left.
The channel connects the Baltic to the large inland Curonian Lagoon, and there can be quite a strong current - which was then flowing outward. I knew the entrance might be difficult in the westerly breeze now blowing, and the current made it worse, with steep standing waves at the harbour mouth. It was an interesting ten minutes getting out.
I had reefed the mainsail before leaving, and this turned out to have been a very wise decision. The wind was around 15-18 knots, but on the beam. I was making a good speed, although the sea was rather lumpy.
After a few hours, I noticed some thin high cloud, then the sun becoming milky in appearance. If this were England, I thought, then I'd be seeing the first signs of a depression, and it'd be raining in another couple of hours ... well, guess what. It wasn't heavy rain, but irritating all the same. The wind had also backed, which meant it was blowing from astern, and the boat didn't like this. I was slowing down, and couldn't steer for the waypoint I wanted. Eventually there was nothing for it: I started the motor, rolled away the jib, turned into wind, dropped the mainsail, and started motoring to Liepaja entrance. I thought I'd better radio in, to be told: 'There are two ships behind you.' I turned, and saw a ferry and a tanker had sneaked up behind me. 'Wait until they have entered,' I was told.
The wind had risen again, and the sea now really quite lumpy, with rain blowing in the breeze. I bounced up and down as the two ships went by, then turned back to the entrance. Liepaja is tricky, and has various shallow areas. However, they seem to have installed new leading lights, which were very effective. Steering was not easy, as the waves behind me tended to pick the stern up and throw the boat round. I trusted to the leading lights, and they guided me in very well, so that I eventually I made the outer harbour and turn down to the yacht quay. And of Liepaja ... more another time!
27 April 2009
Off and Away
A week ago I left Kroeslin in Germany on my trek east. First stop was Dziwnow in Poland, followed by Kolobrzeg, Darwolo, Ustka and now Leba. They have all been fairly short legs, partly because there has been a persistent north easterly breeze - just the direction I don't want!
Frustration has been increased by the lack of preparation for the season at some of the harbours, and some considerable bureaucracy - it seems worse than three years ago! On the other hand, I am very early in the year - they told me at Kolobrzeg that I was the first foreign boat of the season, and the same is probably true of the other harbours. Indeed, apart from fishing boats, and the small motor boats people have to go out for a few hours angling, I have seen nothing else at all - no ferries, no commercial shipping, and certainly no other yachts.
The weather has also changed drastically - a week ago I was wearing several layers of clothing, gloves, scarves, and headgear; yesterday I cycled into the town in just shirtsleeves. The Baltic weather has been non stop sunshine - there was a little cloud on Thursday, and a little today, but otherwise the sun has beating down from a clear blue sky. And in the same way, visibility has been superb.
What happens now depends somewhat on whether I can get diesel here (I should be able to, but I am learning not to underestimate Polish inertia). It's then off to Wladyslawowo, and, with a good forecast, the long hop across to Klaipeda in Lithuania.
On a side note, some areas in the chart are marked as military exercise areas, occasionally closed. There is one off Swinoujscie, but as I was the only vessel for twenty miles around, I thought I would be okay ... until I was 'buzzed' by a Polish airforce jet. He was either trying to tell me something, or was just using me as a convenient aiming mark. I heard nothing on the radio, so I assume (!) the latter. He made about eight or nine close passes, close enough for me to take this:
The image hasn't been enlarged: it's been cropped from the main photo, but other than that, hardly retouched. Any one know what it is? You can almost read the squadron markings!
16th April 2009
Online once more
I've spent the last ten days getting the boat afloat and ready for action. The long gap in posting is due to an uncharacteristic piece of Teutonic inefficiency: the Wifi at the MArina Neuhof was out of action! At the moment I am in Kroeslin, using their expensive Internet connection.
The German engineer who had promised to do various jobs on the boat hadn't made a lot of progress when I arrived: he made up for it by working late into the evening. He repaired bits of gelcoat (coloured hulls do look nice, but they show every scratch) and fitted a stainless steel bow protector, as well as helping me with various other jobs.
Then there was the cleaning and sorting inside after six months closed down. It's not as wet out here as in Britain, so there was little or no damp, but even so, there was a lot of cleaning to do.
The weather has been superb for the past ten days: literally not a cloud in the sky, day or night. One drawback to this: the sun comes with a strong east wind ... and guess which way I want to go? I have around 200 or more miles of the Polish coast to cross, on a heading of nearly due east. Looking at the weather charts, it's going to be Saturday or Sunday before I get away.
3rd April 2009
Back into the fray
On Monday, I shall be taking the Dover Calais ferry and driving to Germany. At least the weather seems to be improving, as you can see from today's picture of the marina:
According to a Stralsund webcam, the temperature today is 11.8°C, which is probably the first time I've seen it in double figures.
I'll have a lot to do when I get there: put 3 litres of antifoul on the hull, replace the anode on the saildrive, and, I hope be launched on Thursday. After that, there are still a lot of odd jobs to be done. Take off all the deck inside to tighten the keelbolts and give it a general clean, remove the leaking flexible water tank, put the sails back on, pressure hose the deck ... and so on. Oh, and pay a very large bill in euros to the engineer. Back in October there were 1.26€ to the pound, now it's 1.08 (better than at the New Year!).
Entirely unrelated: I've installed a nifty bit of Javascript which means that you can show/hide posts at the bottom of the page. Click on the 'Read more ..' (and you can make it disappear with 'Hide me'.)
The Dutch Canals
(complete!)
Coming back from the Baltic to England means crossing the North Sea. Single handed, this meant coast hopping. That was no problem, except the section from Borkum to Den Helder – a distance of nearly 100 miles. This is a long hop single handed, probably about twenty hours or so – which meant either (1) leaving in the dark, (2) arriving in the dark, or (3) going overnight. Neither (1) or (2) were really safe in these waters – particularly when you haven’t been there before – and I didn’t fancy an overnighter. (Ironically we had perfect sailing conditions a year later when I was coming the other way with Rob – we did den Helder to Nordeney, which is further, overnight in about 22 hours.) The passage was also complicated by the fact you’re heading straight into the prevailing winds, and there are no easy harbours of refuge.
Well, there are harbours, but they’re all in the inside, so to speak, and to get to them you have to go between the islands. The channels between them are deep, but they all have a bar where the channels exit into the North Sea. These bars are not only shallow, but if there’s any sort of onshore wind blowing, they become extremely dangerous – particularly on the ebb tide, when the wind and tide are opposite to each other. The pilot book talks about these passages with a metaphorical sucking of teeth. They are probably no problem if you have local knowledge, but not a good idea if you’re looking for a refuge in a hurry.
There was an alternative – to go through the Dutch canals. In addition, thought I, it would be a good opportunity to see what they’re like, and an interesting experience. So I left Borkum with the intention of going into the canals at Lauersoog.
There are two harbours in Borkum - the yacht harbour is very shallow and apparently rather tatty. This is the main harbour, which was once a naval base - hence the rather large pontoons!
It looks as though it should be well sheltered, but in strong southwesterlies a fairly hefty swell rolls into the harbour, making the pontoons distinctly uncomfortable
It was a slightly misty morning, but the visibility was good enough to navigate out of the Ems estuary. I was rather more worried about the channel by the island of Schiermonnikog, which is narrow and winding, but fortunately the murk lifted. There were quite a few boats taking the last of the ebb out, and more of us waiting to take the flood in.
It was a few miles to Lauersoog itself – I tied up and went for a wander, but wasn’t impressed. Move on, I thought. For some reason, the lock didn’t open for an hour or so, and, together with other boats, I had to hang about outside, drifting with the wind, then motoring back. Slightly to my surprise, I didn’t have much of a problem with the lock, even though the wind was blowing me in, and I was soon in the Lauersmeer (meer = lake, and you’ll find it used in Northern England – Windermere). But it was getting a little late by now, and I made for the marina at Ostmannhorn.
The wind had got up quite a bit, and I knew I’d have to pick my mooring carefully. All the quayside was used up, but there were one or two boxes empty ... no, I thought. I decided instead to raft up against a large Bavaria – and knew I was storing up trouble for myself. The wind was blowing me on quite hard, and getting off again wouldn’t be easy – unless the wind dropped or shifted. Well, that was something for the morning.
And the morning duly came – the wind was blowing harder if anything, pinning me to the boat inside ... who wanted to go. He did suggest casting off with me still attached(!), but I thought a better option might be for me to spring off (see pretty graphic). Rope from my bow to his midships and back to the bow. Plenty of fenders on the bow. I motor ahead, rope holds me back, stern swings out. At the critical moment, go hard reverse. Line goes slack, he takes it off his cleat and throws it onto my boat.
He was dubious. What if the line fouls my prop? he asked. I told him I was using a line that could float (originally intended for a man overboard line. These have to float!) He shrugged. Well, it worked – although his wife was obviously concerned about my bow roller catching on their boat as I backed away. I followed him down the Lauersmeer towards the lock a few miles away. The shallow depth alarm was beeping all the way – it was set to 1.8m, and I usually ground at 1.6m. It was often showing 1.5m! I suspect I was ploughing through the mud from time to time.
The wind was dead astern, and funnelling down the canal. By the time we got to the lock, it was a good Force 6. The lock opened. I didn’t like this – going in single handed with this wind behind me ... would I be able to stop? I chickened out.
One of the factors that led me to this was some staging on the bank belonging to the Yachthaven Lunegat. I could tie up there and wait a day or so for the wind to drop – which I did.
So, come Sunday morning, nice bright day, little wind, cast off and head over to the staging by the lock, waiting for lock to open. Lights come on by the lock, start engine, cast off, engage reverse, and ... nothing. Try everything: forward, neutral, reverse – still nothing, except a funny sound when engine was in gear. The lock has opened and closed by this time, and I ended up drifting into the reeds. I hailed a passing Bavaria, who towed me the two hundred yards back to the Yachthaven.
So ... talk to Rob, the marina manager. He towed me round into the marina proper and called an engineer. First option was the cable from the control lever to the gear box - the only option that didn’t involve taking the boat out of the water. No luck. Rob arranged a hoist out (just him and me – unlike Strahlwerfft in Germany, where there was eight of them and me. They’ve since gone bust.). Propeller so loose you can waggle it with your hand. So, new propeller needed (the splines had worn away on the old one, and getting compensation from the UK agents through whom I bought the boat was ... interesting). This took another few days, and one of the problems with the yachthaven was that it was in the middle of nowhere. A kind Dutch family gave me a lift to the nearby town of Kollum so I could get some provisions. There was a bus to Dokkum – a charming small town a little further down the canals.
After about a week, the new prop was fitted. To pay the engineer, he drove me to Kollum, where I fed card after card into the cash machines to get the money. And then I was able to move on.
Lunegat Yachthaven: crane and marina manager's house.
I left early on a Sunday morning to catch first opening of the lock. This proved to be another embarrassment. I got into the lock, grabbed a rope on the side, and threaded lines through rings. There was still space in front – should I move forward? I looked behind. The lock had plenty of empty spaces, and was closing – no point, thought I. Until, as the lock was filling, the voice of the lock keeper came over the loudspeaker: ‘English boat – you have left a space in front of you. I do not understand such behaviour.’
Dokkum Lock
Since he was tucked away in his control room, there was nothing I could say in return. There was no point in moving now. I acted as if I hadn’t heard. All the other people in the lock politely looked the other way. I left as the lock open feeling the day hadn’t started well.
It was then a few miles to Dokkum, where there are various bridges to pass through. I was caught out again. I had heard of the custom of collecting payment by dangling a clog on the end of a piece of string. What I had missed when approaching the town was the sign stating the payment. I got to the bridge, boats hard on my heels, and as the clog went down, reached into my pockets. Empty. ‘No money,’ I shouted up to the man with the clog. ‘Not good,’ he shouted back.
The next bridge was five hundred metres or so further down. Things were tricky. The canal was fairly crowded with boats, and in particular, a very large steel barge treading on my heels. There was a bit of a breeze blowing by now. I had to keep the boat moving to keep steerage way – too slow, and the keel can stall, which means the boat slides sideways all too easily. Too fast, and I would be pinned up against the next bridge. Prospero does not go backwards very predictable until she is moving at a knot or two.
Whilst I’m juggling all these factors, a man comes down the towpath on a bike. ‘You owe one Euro fifty!’. Okay then – leave the helm, dash below, scrabble on the chart table for comes, dash back up. How to give the money to the bloke? Ideally, I should have put some fenders out before approaching the bank, but that would have delayed matters even further. Instead, I edge in, pass over the money (leaving the helm again), and ... the wind blows the bow in. I hit the metal paling – not hard, but hard enough, I knew, to have scratched the gel coat.
You can meet some quite big fellows in the canals.
Finally we got clear of Dokkum, and the next point about the canals became clear: you effectively travel in convoy. Partly, of course, is that you are limited in your speed anyway, but if a boat gets ahead, it then has to wait by the next bridge until everyone else has caught it up. I tended to hang back – although you can contact the bridge by VHF, the main set is below, and I have been told hand held VHFs are not approved of in the Netherlands.
Travelling in convoy
Eventually I got to Leeurwarden, and whether I liked it or not, that was where I was staying – the bridges were closing for the day. I spotted a portion of the bank that was clear, and headed for it. As I was a couple of feet away, the boat slowed down and stopped. I looked at the depth sounder – still plenty of water ... then I started moving backwards! The top of the mast had caught in overhanging branches, which had bent forward to stop me, and now were pushing me back as I straightened out. Oh, well, find somewhere else.
Moorings at Leeuwarden
I spent a few days in Leeurwarden, which is an historic town, if slightly shabby, and built round the canal system. Then it was time to move on, and left with the early morning convoy through the bridges on the way out of town (to cries of ‘Faster!’ from the boat behind, as I navigated the narrow gap of one bridge). The canal system ends at Harlingen, with a final lock out to the North Sea. I got through this one without too much trouble, and when people saw I was singlehanded, they helped to hold me in place whilst I tied up.
The streets of Leeuwarden
It shows how flat this part of the Netherlands is: the land from the Lauersmeer to the North Sea – perhaps 60 or 70 miles – is all the same height ... about 3 or 4 metres above sea level!
I had thought of stopping in Harlingen, but the access to the yacht harbour looked awkward, and there was plenty of time left in the day. I was now out in the Waddensee, surrounded by hordes of boats who had all come through the locks at the same time. There was a little wind – I pulled out of the main stream of boats to hoist the sail, then motored along near the end of the convoy. I hadn’t detailed charts for this part of the world, but the electronic charts I had indicated the deep water channels. And if in doubt, follow the others ... well, providing it looked as though they drew more water than I did!
The channel took us past the Ijsselmeer, and another cascade of yachts came out of the big lock there. Whereas before I had been motoring into the wind, the channel now turned to the west, and I could now sail closehauled towards the exit to the North Sea.
The wind wasn’t that strong – never more than about F3 – and these were conditions that suited Prospero. There were a lot of yachts of all shapes and sizes just emerging from the Ijsselmeer, and going the same way as me. I’d hold my own private race.
Now Prospero is only 30 foot, and there were some big boats behind me. True, many were heavy cruising boats, but not all of them, and Prospero is not a racing yacht. I was singlehanded, so the autohelm was doing the steering, but in these conditions the boat is so well balanced that it had little to do, leaving me free to trim the sails. And I held them all off – which was rather pleasing.
Eventually the wind died, and I motored the last few miles into den Helder for the night, and from there into the North Sea – but that’s another story.
So – what did I think of the experience? First and foremost: don’t do it singlehanded! Several reasons: locks; putting money into dangling clogs while motoring at high speed through narrow gaps and trying to steer the boat at the same time; not being able to leave the helm for hours at a time as the canal meanders round the countryside. The stress reduced the enjoyment factor considerably. In addition, don’t expect to make a great distance in one day: the bridges are a great time waster. On the other hand, if you’ve time to explore, and are happy to amble along, then you’ll enjoy it.
19th February 2009
Spring?
Four weeks to the equinox. It's not that it's getting warmer, but perhaps a little less cold. My heating has been turned down from full for the first time since mid December. England is its usual grey self, but on the rare occasion when the sun does break through, you can feel the warmth in it once again. Mind you, I know it'll probably snow again before the winter finally lets go! Prospero, however, isn't here, but in Baltic Germany, where the weather is less clement.
The boat's at the Marina Neuhof - here's a picture of her on the outside on the marina back in October:
And the view towards the marina office:
Neuhof is in the Strelasund: the channel that runs from Stralsund down to the Greifswalder Bodden. This is in eastern Germany, close to the Polish border:
The red circle marks Neuhof.
It's not that far north - on about the same latitude as the Isle of Man, or, in East Coast terms, between Whitby and Filey.
When the boat was being hoisted out, I asked the lad helping the hafenmeister if there was much ice in the winter. He shrugged. 'Sometimes'.
I asked the engineer who was looking at the boat: 'Much snow last year?' 'Some,' he said, 'late in the winter.'
This year the cold weather came in December, with the temperatures well below zero, causing much of the water in the area to freeze over (it's fresh water rather than salt, so freezes fairly easily. The temperatures have hovered around zero for a couple of months now, and the ice has lingered.
There are several webcams in the area, including one in the marina itself. Here's a picture from a few days ago:
The red line I've marked with an arrow is where the boat was last October - see top photo!
12th February 2009
Twenty Years On
Just before Christmas, I read a book called Sailing to Leningrad (still in in print apparently). The title tells you something – Leningrad has now reverted to being St Petersburg. The author – Roger Foxall - was the first ‘Western’ yacht to have visited the city since the war – helped by the fact that the boat, Canna, flew the Irish flag – and Ireland was a neutral country. He made the voyage in 1988, and wrote the book in 1989.
I bought a copy in a remaindered bookshop years ago. As a sailing book, it was quite interesting, although nothing out of the way. What is of more interest to me today is his descriptions of the Baltic states (then part of the U.S.S.R.) and Poland. It seems that when they turn up in one of the harbours, they are met with polite bafflement. A yacht? What’s one of them? You’re from the West? And so on. Plus, of course, the Communist bureaucracy (but judging by the way the Government is implementing its ‘eborders’ policy, bureaucracy seems to be returning to Britain).
Thankfully, the bureaucracy is getting less, as I discovered two years ago, and how much less it’s got since then, I’ll find out this year.
But twenty years. In that time, politically the Baltic has changed almost beyond recognition. Do revolutions occur every twenty years? Well, 1968 was a revolutionary year in some respects, but they didn’t have the same impact as the fall of the Berlin Wall. There was another revolution, though, and that was a technological one, for which I am very grateful.
If you come across old books on ‘fitting out’ by the likes of Des Sleighthome, you’ll be both amazed and baffled. In the 60s, people spent days ‘fitting out for the season’ - painting, varnishing, and brewing up weird concoctions: ‘bring one pint of paraffin to the boil, add 2 ounces of Stockholm tar, then ...’
Why? Well, the revolution was three fold: fibreglass, or GRP, for wood; stainless steel rigging for galvanised iron; and synthetic materials for sails and rope. No wood, no painting and varnishing, other than doing it because you like to see wooden hatches. Stainless steel: no rusting, and hence no need to paint them with noxious concoctions to keep the water off. Terylene sails for cotton: no mould, no rot.
Only one thing is left – anti-fouling! I expect to arrive back at the boat, spend a morning spreading three litres of very expensive paint over the bottom of the boat, and ... that's it! Launch the boat. Still lots of other little jobs to do on board, but if you can find me anything the size and complexity of a boat that’s maintenance free, I’d be glad to hear of it!
5th February 2009
Black Prince
As I mentioned below, Black Prince was the boat I bought to replace Centurion, the Virgo Voyager. It was kept along the same pontoon as Centurion, and I used to look at it from time to time, thinking, this is a 'proper yacht'. I knew the owners slightly, and used to say hello, how are you, how's the boat - until one day they said: the boat's for sale. Whereupon I bought it.
It was actually older than Centurion - 1974 as opposed to 1979 - but she was far more pleasant to sail, as well as being much larger. 28 foot doesn't sound much more than 23 foot, but in fact, it makes a world of difference.
The layout below (see right) was one of the most practical I have found (see here for more details and pictures). There was a long bench seat to starboard, and a dinette with for and aft seating to port. The layout on Prospero is not one I like, but all layouts are constrained by having to support the mast. On many boats - the Trapper and the Virgo - this is done with a hefty bulkhead about two thirds of the way down the cabin. The drawback is that it splits the cabin rather awkwardly, and in both boats the heads were in front of the bulkhead, next to the forward berth.
One alternative is to take the mast all the way down through the cabin to the keel - which means a hole in the cabin top - ideal for leaks! Another possibility is to have a pillar directly below the mast, which is the layout Prospero has. This means the bulkhead is not as hefty, and can be further forward.
Around the support is the central table, with settee berths either side. I don't like this, as you have to squeeze along between berth and table to move down the boat. Still, if it's only one thing I don't like about the layout, then I'm doing well.
The other big difference between boats of the 70s and those of today is the extra space below. This can come as a result of making the hull broader and fatter, and as a consequence, the handling of the boat often suffers. You see the likes of Bavarias going to windward in a strong breeze, being caught by a gust, heeling over, and just rounding up into the wind, which the Huzar doesn't do. Instead, Prospero's weakness is with the wind on the quarter. This is more that the mainsail is extremely large, particularly compared with the jib, and with swept back spreaders, you can't let it out all that far.
Still, every boat has to have one vice. On the other hand, Prospero is so well balanced going to windward that I can set the autohelm, then switch it off, and the boat just keeps tramping along on a steady course. Now, how many modern boats can you say that about?
28th January 2009
After Centurion, I owned a Trapper 500, Black Prince, a very rewarding boat to sail.
Usually I don't have much time or opportunity for racing. However, I travelled to Alderney in August 2004 for a rally, and met Nick, who was hosting the event, in the bar of the Alderney Sailing Club.
"I've entered you for the Round Aldeney Race," he told me.
I was a touch apprehensive. Alderney is somewhat rockstrewn. There are considerable overfalls. The weather was, shall we say, brisk. And I'd be taking on local boats who knew all the shortcuts.
Black Prince had separate hanked on jibs when I bought her, but as I singlehand a lot, I soon got roller reefing. The big genoa is fine up to the top of say F3, but is too much after that. I bought a blade jib - roughly a Number 3 - to put on for times when I knew it would be blowy. Fortunately I had that with me. The other issue was whether to reef the main: I decided I'd go for full main and small jib, which turned out to be a good choice.
The secretary of the sailing club worked out a handicap for me. Nick and his sailing partner Clive, who have homes on the island, joined me soon before the start. The first issue was the submerged part of the breakwater, notorious for catching out the unwary.
"Follow that big chap," they said. "He's got the coxswain of the local life boat on board."
I stuck to his tail and followed his wake over the breakwater. Outside the harbour, it was blowing around WSW F5, with quite a strong ebbing tide. The 'big chap', our rival for line honours, had a partly rolled genoa, and with our small jib, we were able to point 10-15 degrees higher.
It was certainly lumpy, and we took a fair amount of water over the bow at the bottom of the Swinge. The tide was slackening by then: the start time was devised so that you took the ebb to the bottom of the island and the flood back up the other side.
I was hiding behind the sprayhood (which any real racing man would have taken down!) whilst Nick and Clive stood at the rear of the cockpit clutching the backstay. It kept them dry, and more importantly, they could see where we were going. "Head for that rock there," they would say from time to time.
As we came off the wind, the opposition began to catch us, putting up a spinnaker at the bottom of the island. I hadn't a spinnie on board, and the blade jib was not a lot of use downwind. As we came back round the top of the island, we began to catch up again, but not enough to beat him over the line.
The results were announced in the sailing club bar an hour or two later. On corrected time, the 'English boat' [catcalls] had won. Mind you, there had been only four boats in the race. But it was a good race to have won.
At the end of the race, I had reached to start the engine, and felt the key twist in my hand, though fortunately not break off. The harbour launch were kind enough to bring us back to our mooring, which was a bit tricky in that wind with all the other boats around.
Mainbrayce came out in the morning, and managed to silver solder the key [all the spares were at home, needless to say]. The engine still wouldn't start, however, and we found that the relay for the starter had a dodgy connection. Pulling it out and pushing it back in firmly cured the problem!
22nd January 2009
Where to Next?
... which is a slight hi-jacking of the title of Rob Clark's project. (He's sailing round the world with his next destination being decided by a throw of a dice. His blog is here.) My own choice of destination is perhaps as idiosyncratic - a place or area catches my imagination, and I think - why not?
My interest in Estonia was sparked off by buying a pilot book to the area at the Boat Show (I've later discovered that most of it is on line here).
My route would be across the Polish coast, then, with a long hop to avoid Kaliningrad, to Lithuania and Latvia. I've done all this before in 2006, but never quite made it to Riga Bay.
The red dots are stopping places, leading to the island of Saaremaa. It's around 11 separate legs - maybe three weeks. Leaving near the end of April would get me there in mid May. Perhaps still a touch cold then, but it would be before the main Baltic sailing season. I suspect many of the harbours don't have a great deal of space, and will quickly fill up with lots of Swedes and Finns!
Having got there, it would worth spending time exploring Riga Bay: that's the stretch of water below Saaremaa. As far as I can gather, several of the harbours have improved facilities for yachts - here, for example, is a picture gallery of the new harbour at Roomassaare (don't ask me how to pronounce that! Estonian is related to Finnish, and the two languages form a group of their own (see Wikipedia). It is not an Indo-European language.).
However, there are also political influences at work, as this page about GrandHolm Marina in Haapsalu demonstrates!
The capitol, Tallinn, is much further round the corner, and I doubt I'd get that far. Riga Bay itself is partly Estonian, partly Latvian, and would take two or three weeks to explore.